


And All The Good You've Done (Will Soon Be Swept Away)

by Lauralot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Asexual Character, Blow Jobs, Crack, Dubious Consent, Edgeplay, Emotional Manipulation, Fluff, Gen, HYDRA Husbands, Humor, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostate Massage, Rumlow Week, Sexual Frustration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 05:27:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2376467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of one shot stories about Brock Rumlow, following the prompts of Rumlow Week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One: Brock Rumlow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next seven days are Brock Rumlow Week on Tumblr, and because I have an inexplicable love for that jerk, I will be writing a short fic for him on each of those days and posting them here. Today's prompt is simply "Brock Rumlow."

"Fucking Captain America."

All Rollins says is "Mmhmm" but he's fuming as well, jaw tensed and mouth set in a thin line. Knowing that his second in command commiserates does little to alleviate Rumlow's fury. All it does is set his blood boiling again as he remembers that Rollins isn't the STRIKE team SIC anymore. He's been demoted, because Rumlow's been demoted.

All so some pretty boy figurehead with a shield can play commando.

It was like Rogers was the second coming of Christ, the way everyone had lost their shit when they hauled him out of the Arctic. And sure, maybe there had been a flicker of a thrill in Rumlow's chest, but he'd stomped that down fast.

He'd grown up with Steve Rogers. What boy in America hadn't? So maybe he'd been a little more into the Captain than most, pilfering dog-eared comics from the trash and sneaking away the remote to watch the old USO specials that aired each July when his old man passed out in front of the TV. He'd held onto Cap as a guilty pleasure even when he'd taken to the streets as a teen, slipping away from his gang to sneak into the movies and gape at the approximation of Rogers on the big screen. Once he'd even gotten his hands on a Captain America porno tape. But that was just for Bambi Woods's tits.

Anyway, those were the stupid fantasies of some starry-eyed punk. He was well over Captain America and his kumbaya freedom brand of bull by the time Rumlow was overseas and watching helplessly as his friends were sent home in boxes, some of them in pieces. He'd take security over freedom and trust in his fellow man any day, and HYDRA had understood that. And that was why HYDRA was thriving in SHIELD and Rogers was a corpse in the sea.

Until it turned out that he wasn't.

And now, to add insult to injury, Fury's placing Rogers in charge of STRIKE. Rumlow's team, his family. Sentiment may be weakness but it's _his_ , damn it, and now this idealistic antique is stealing it away? Hell no.

"Gonna make him choke on his own teeth," Rumlow seethes, "serum or no serum. I'm gonna tell him just what I think of him."

"Mmhmm," Rollins says. There's still a vein tensing in his forehead but there's a new light to his face, a sort of enraged smirk, though his mouth hasn't moved at all. Like it's a challenge. A taunt. _Go ahead, commander, tell the super soldier what you think of him. See how that turns out._

"I will," Rumlow snaps, pacing the confines of the elevator. "Fury can give him whatever title he wants, fine, but I ain't marching to his beat. This is _my_ team and he can sit back and watch my lead or he can go play soldier somewhere else."

"Mmhmm," Rollins says.

It's bravado and they both know it; Rumlow isn't dumb enough to get himself thrown out of STRIKE by mouthing off to Captain America. But like hell is he going to enjoy a single second of it, even if this does nicely tie with Pierce's order to keep a watch on the super soldier. This is _his_ team and any compliance on Rumlow's part will be grudging and he doesn't give a damn if Rogers knows it. Like he cares what the American dream thinks.

The elevator doors slide open and Rogers steps inside.

Rumlow can sense Rollins smirking behind him, feel the stare boring into his back. He can't take his eyes off of Rogers. Robert Redford definitely didn't do the man justice back in that seventies biopic.

Before he can form words, Rogers is speaking. "Agent Rumlow?"

 _Captain America_ knows him on sight. Rumlow can only nod.

And then the Captain's hand is out and shaking his own before Rumlow even registers lifting it. "Steve Rogers." Then he smiles and _damn,_ Steve Rogers didn't do _himself_ justice in those old grainy USO reels. "I've read your reports—that mission in Waziristan was really something—I'm looking forward to working with you."

There is a pause and Rumlow thinks this is where he's meant to reply, except his brain and his mouth aren't connected anymore. "Uh."

"I bet we'll both learn a lot," Rogers continues, before he glances over Rumlow's shoulder and presumably meets Rollins's eyes. "Agent Rollins?"

"Mmhmm."

"I'm sure I'll enjoy working with you as well," Rogers says, just as the doors slide open again. "Well, here's where I get off. I'll see you for the briefing at oh two hundred. Nice meeting you."

And just like that, he's gone. Rumlow is left staring at the space where the Captain used to be. To his credit, his mouth is not quite agape.

"You sure told him," says Rollins.

"Shut up."

"Were you checking out his ass?" Rollins asks. "'Cause I think he glanced at yours."

"You want a foot up your own?"

"I'm too tall," Rollins says. "You'd just get stuck. Hey, wasn't the day they announced thawing him out the same day you had to make an emergency run to the store for more hand lotion?"

"I will force feed you your own tongue." They finally, finally reach their floor and Rumlow stalks out, fuming and red-faced.

"Mmhmm."

_Fucking Steve Rogers._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is taken from a lyric in ["Heaven on Their Minds"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g-voeq7Cebo) from _Jesus Christ Superstar._
> 
> Parts of Rumlow's background I have invented. Other parts, such as [having seen Captain America's USO movies](http://lauralot89.tumblr.com/post/97091644871/marvels-captain-america-the-winter-soldier) and having been in a gang as a teen, are taken from the comics (I am convinced that MCU Rumlow was a Cap fanboy growing up just from his lines in the _Winter Soldier_ tie in comic).
> 
> Bambi Woods was the star of the pornographic film _Debbie Does Dallas._


	2. Day Two: Crossbones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for Day Two of Rumlow Week is Crossbones. I intended to write something about comic Crossbones at first, but I don't know enough about him to write him well. So then I wanted to write a serious piece about MCU Rumlow becoming Crossbones, but instead I listened to ["You Are A Pirate"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i8ju_10NkGY) from Lazy Town one too many times and this nonsense happened. In conclusion, picking on Rumlow never gets old.

"I want a code name."

Rollins glances into the living room, where Rumlow is sprawled over the couch, flipping through a Captain America biography. "Really? You're still reading that crap?"

"You threw me out of the kitchen." It's Rumlow's apartment but the kitchen only ever sees use if Rollins is over. Which has gotten to be pretty often as of late, after missions. Rumlow could happily live off of microwave dinners and takeout and he doesn't understand why cooking is Rollins's go-to method of unwinding after Fury's cleared them, but hey. He gets decent meals out of it and the company isn't too awful.

"You set fire to a crock pot. You have no business in the kitchen."

"That was _once_ and I was sabotaged." Rumlow tosses the book at Rollins's head before the man can start debating sabotage versus stupidity. "No, but really. Rogers wasn't the only one with a code name, you know."

"So they were all jackasses, is your point?" Having dodged the projectile, Rollins slips back over to the stove. The air is thick with the scents of garlic and oregano.

The book lies open on the countertop, spine bent, but Rumlow can't be bothered to retrieve it. He's still in his tactical gear, collapsed on the couch. If not for the dull but persistent ache of hunger in his stomach, he'd have been out cold as soon as he was lying down. "You had Captain America, obviously—"

"Unfortunately."

"—but there was also Union Jack and Frenchie and Dum Dum and the San Francisco Kid—"

"None of them were from San Fran," Rollins says, stirring.

"See? You've read up on them too, you can't judge me."

"One, I read about them once. Two, it was an order from Pierce. And three, I'm always judging you."

Rumlow had been counting names on his fingers. Now he flips Rollins off and continues. "All of 'em had a code name. I need one."

"Why, so all you have to do is introduce yourself for everyone to know you're a douchebag?"

Shaking his head, Rumlow watches as Rollins returns his attention to the soup. "You don't get it." Once HYDRA has the world, the STRIKE team will be the _new_ Howling Commandos. Kids aren't gonna want to hear about Rogers and Barnes anymore; they'll be begging for stories of Rumlow and Rollins and their dead-eyed cyborg attack dog. It's exhilarating.

It's also exhausting. Rumlow hasn't had a decent sleep since the team shipped out and he begins to nod off, head drooping, before the clang of Rollins's spoon against the side of the pot jolts him back to alertness. His head is tilting down again when his eyes fall on the harness straps crisscrossing over his chest and inspiration strikes.

"Crossbones."

"Soup's ready," Rollins says at the exact same moment.

"Crossbones," Rumlow repeats, hunger forgotten. "It's perfect." And it is, much better than some location turned nickname. It's tough and threatening and mysterious. You'd wonder what the deal behind the name is, but you wouldn't ask for fear of getting your ass kicked. Perfect.

"For a wannabe pirate, maybe." Rollins snorts, rolling his eyes as he sets the steaming bowls down on the coffee table. "You gonna borrow Fury's eye patch?"

It's clear that Rollins has no taste. "What is this shit anyway?" Rumlow asks, stirring through the soup.

"Anything that wasn't expired. I don't know how you live by yourself without sta—wait." Rollins's own spoon is forgotten, eyes sparkling. "Are you—are you actually _pouting_ because I don't like your little pirate name?"

"Who's pouting? I just don't wanna start my weekend with food poisoning."

"You _are_." Rollins is cackling, one hand clamped over his mouth and the other reaching out to pat Rumlow's knee. "Aw, it's okay, Commander. I'll help you hunt for buried treasure." When his hand is batted away he just doubles in on himself, howling louder.

There is absolutely not a smile tugging at Rumlow's lips. Nope. "Who says you're invited on my ship?"

Rollins is laughing so much he's wiping at his eyes, the prick. "Well good. Then I don't have to call myself First Mate Jolly Rollins."

"The Soldier's the first mate." Rumlow crosses his arms and fine, maybe he's smirking. "You're the parrot."

"All the more reason to stay off your ship. I sit on your shoulder and you'll crash through the damn floor."

Waiting until Rollins has the spoon in his mouth before he responds, Rumlow says, "You could always sit in my lap."

It's not the first time he's seen Rollins choke, but it never gets less amusing. "Oh, so you're _that_ kind of pirate." He wipes at his mouth, shaking his head. "If you have to play superhero, you could at least name yourself after something that makes sense. Like Lightweight."

There's a flush of heat in his face and he considers upending the soup on Rollins's head. A little too much to drink on one mission and nobody will ever let him live it down. "So you'd be Scarface?"

"Better than _Lightweight._ Or—oh, oh, _Two Beers._ " Rollins doesn't even register the punch to his shoulder through his giggles.

"It was two _shots_ , asshole." And that only makes Rollins laugh harder. Fine, so Rumlow had gotten trashed in Moscow and he'd been a bit of a handsy drunk but the whole "two beers and Brock becomes an octopus" gag the STRIKE team's so fond of isn't just played out, it's inaccurate. "Fuck you."

"Gonna make me walk the plank?" Rollins asks. "Finish your soup."

"It's cold."

"The mighty Crossbones, bested by cold soup." He's not laughing out loud now, but he's shaking trying to hold it in. "I think it's best for the crew if I lead a mutiny."

"You're just jealous," Rumlow says, stalking to the microwave, "that in twenty years the world's gonna know _me_ as Crossbones and _you'll_ be stuck as Jolly Rollins."

"Over my dead body."

"That can be arranged."

Rollins snorts, letting the spoon clatter into his own empty bowl. "Relax, Bones. You're still my favorite captain even if you've got ridiculous taste."

"It's a great name and history's gonna vindicate it."

"Mmhmm."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Union Jack was James Montgomery Falsworth's code name. Frenchie was a nickname for Jacques Dernier. The San Francisco Kid was a name for Jim Morita in the comics, though in the film he's from Fresno. So really I ought to have just called him Fresno, but there you go.
> 
> When Rollins says that kind of a pirate, he means a butt pirate. I really didn't plan for this fic to have HYDRA Husbands leanings, but they're slipping in whether I intended them or not.
> 
> Two Beers: the lovely and talented [bofurrific](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bofurrific/pseuds/bofurrific) wrote me story entitled ["I've found the velvet sun that shines on me and you."](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2369987/chapters/5233529) consisting of fifty drabbles about Rumlow, Rollins, and the Winter Soldier. The eighth drabble, [Gift,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2369987/chapters/5233769) mentions that Rumlow is a lightweight, touchy-feely drunk, which Rollins and the Winter Soldier proceed to mock him for by giving him a stuffed octopus they named Two Beers. It was beautiful and easily drunk, handsy Rumlow is now my headcanon.
> 
> "Over my dead body": Given that we last saw Rollins unconscious on the floor of the Triskelion before the helicarrier hit, it's entirely possible that he is dead by the end of the film. And that's terrible.


	3. Day Three: Frank Grillo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for Day Three of Rumlow Week is Frank Grillo.
> 
> Anders is a character who's appeared in two of my previous fics: [_International House of Stockholm_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2195529) and [_All Mine (You Have to Be)_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2257455). She is a transgender member of the STRIKE team and is the invention of bofurrific, first appearing in her fic [_Brock Rumlow doesn't need transphobic pieces of shit on his team._](http://orderthroughpain.tumblr.com/post/90712441920/brock-doesnt-need-transphobic-pieces-of-shit-on) She appears here as always with bofurrific's permission.

There's a movie about Cap's first mission with the STRIKE team before there's even a movie about the Chitauri invasion in New York.

In retrospect, it makes sense. A movie about a tac-team is faster and cheaper to produce than a film depicting an all-out war between aliens and superheroes. Plus, it's much less likely to inspire cries of "too soon." Rumlow ought to have expected it but he's never been one to track the latest in pop culture, and as such he first hears about the movie when Cap invites him over to watch it on demand.

"Did you know about this?" he asks Rollins, starting up the stairs toward Cap's apartment.

"The whole team knew about this. They've been bitching about the casting choices for months." It's not a surprise that Rollins tagged along; the man hates Rogers but he's smart enough to stay in his good graces. And Rollins isn't one to pass up free entertainment.

"And you never thought to mention it?"

"Please. You're enough of a peacock without bringing Hollywood into it."

Rumlow punches him. By the time they reach Cap's door things have devolved into an aggressive wrestling match.

"The reviews are mostly positive," Cap says once they're all settled in front of the TV and supplied with popcorn and every candy in existence. "But I haven't pre-screened it, so I'm sorry if it's awful. Or triggering."

"Just roll the tape, big guy."

Chris Evans doesn't do Steve Rogers justice—Rumlow's beginning to doubt any actor could—but he's far from hard to look at and he does a damn good job of acting like he's waking up half-frozen from ice in the opening sequence. Cap goes tense on the couch and Rumlow, after a moment's deliberation, quickly and firmly squeezes the Captain's knee.

Cap settles after that, breathing steady by the time Evans meets the rest of the team. Rumlow's own breath catches when Anders is introduced; she's a part of his family and he'll be damned if he sits there and watches his friend reduced to some plot device about how wonderfully tolerant Captain America is. As if that's a lesson that even needs to be taught: The Howling Commandos were a fully integrated unit and Cap worked alongside Agent Peggy Carter, for Christ's sake. But it's thankfully a nonissue, and he's just starting to sigh in relief when the cinematic version of Rumlow appears and Rollins elbows him in the ribs.

"Look, they made you pretty."

And okay, fine, the actor's cheekbones look like they were sculpted by angels. Whatever. He's not going to get all giddy about somebody portraying him, and especially not in front of _Captain America._ "Guy's too short."

"Guy's named Frank Grillo, and he's exactly your height." Rollins has his phone out, smirking. "What, are you jealous?"

"His hair's ridiculous," Rumlow says. "You can't have hair that high maintenance in a tac-team."

"Don't you carry a blow dryer in your pack?" Cap asks, and that's the first time Rollins has genuinely laughed at anything the Captain's said.

"Fuck the both of you," Rumlow says, attention back on the screen. "Look Jack, your guy has _your_ shitty hair down. _And_ he walks like he's got your stick up his ass."

"Callan Mulvey," Rollins announces, eyes back on the phone. "And hey, his scar's real. Car accident."

"So you're the role he was destined to play?" Rumlow asks. "That poor bastard."

"Yeah?" Rollins just smirks. "Hey Bones, Frank Grillo's best known for a soap opera. And according to IMDB, he once played a male stripper."

"Why do you call him Bones?" Cap asks, presumably to distract Rumlow from emptying a bowl of buttered popcorn onto Rollins's lap. "Is it a _Star Trek_ reference?"

"You've seen _Star Trek_?"

Cap shrugs. "Stark recommended it. What, did you think I just go home and iron my tights when we're off the clock? I do try to catch up with the world."

"A whole year in the twenty-first century and you've made it to the sixties." Rumlow steals one of the Captain's Junior Mints just because he can. "Blazing right along."

The movie isn't _bad,_ it's just…obviously a movie. More interested in telling a good story than getting the facts exactly right. And Rumlow doesn't mind that; accuracy's never been a sticking point of his when it comes to entertainment. Mostly it's fun watching what changes they made and why.

Or it would be, if they hadn't portrayed Rumlow as some star struck Cap fanboy.

It's a credit to Grillo's acting that the fawning and staring come off as endearing rather than creepy or emasculating. But _still._ They've gone so far as to invent a backstory about Rumlow's grandfather being in the 107th, telling him tales of Captain America throughout his youth. In his introduction, he asks Evans to sign his vintage Cap trading cards, for God's sake. _Trading cards._ In another scene, they have him spill coffee all over himself when Evans walks into the room. "Aw, come _on._ "

"You dropped his shield on your foot before," Rollins is quick to point out.

"In _combat_."

"If my suit's really that tight," Cap says, quite plainly staring at his actor's ass, "I can see why you were distracted."

Rumlow laughs himself sick.

It seems infiltrating an insurgent base to rescue hostages wasn't exciting enough for the filmmakers, as they added an emotional subplot. Evans as Captain America is noticeably cold to Grillo's Rumlow, enough so that Cap asks, "Is it just me, or am I kind of a jerk?"

"It's not just you," Rollins says, beautifully deadpan.

It's obvious where this is headed, especially as there are roughly a dozen flashbacks to Bucky Barnes in the film—he's played by some Romanian kid according to Rollins's phone, a guy who looks weirdly like the Soldier if the Soldier had a decent haircut and any color to his face. Rumlow's surprised Cap doesn't see where this is going, but maybe cinema in his day had different emotional ploys.

It comes to a head when insurgents take Grillo hostage. Yeah, Rumlow had been grabbed by an incendiary during the infiltration—for a whole minute—but the movie updates that to hours of captivity.

"We gotta leave him," Mulvey says, eyes sparkling with unshed tears. "For all we know, he's dead already. Brock would want us to carry on."

"Yeah, that's how that would go," Rollins says. "Minus the crying. And if you die, I get your guns."

Evans sets his jaw, glowing with determination. "I've been _carrying on_ for the last seventy years. I can't _live_ with myself if I don't at least try."

"Do I really sound that sanctimonious?" Cap asks, brow furrowed.

Rumlow chokes on a Jujyfruit. "You really want an answer to that?"

Evans finds Grillo strapped to a table, because of course he does. In a bit of editing that would be hamfisted if it weren't filmed mostly in shadow, the shot flickers between Rumlow and Barnes tied down. "Steve…" Grillo breathes, as Rumlow wonders if this role will be up for Best Supporting.

"I thought you were dead," Evans scolds, tearing the straps away.

Cap is still. It seems he's starting to get it.

Then Grillo is up, limping his way back into action. Rumlow's been tortured in the past, and this guy gets it, portraying the pain all the way down to his bones. "Come on, we can salvage this, we can—"

Evans grabs his arm. "You're not going back into combat like this."

And then they're arguing, each doing an impressive job of shaking with unspoken emotions, but Rumlow barely hears their words. He's increasingly aware of Cap fidgeting beside him.

The movement halts as Evans shakes Grillo by the collar and shouts "You think you can do these things but you _can't_ , Bucky!"

Grillo pushes away, staggers back, silent. "You never really left the ice," he says, like he can't decide if he's disgusted or heartbroken. "He's gone. Learn to let go."

And then Evans is back on a train blasted apart, hanging from a rail, his hand entwined with Barnes. They're falling, both of them. The angle makes it impossible for even a super soldier to haul both bodies up.

"Steve!" Barnes shouts. He isn't crying. His face is steeled. "Steve! You have to let go."

There's a swell of very emotional and probably beautiful music, but Rumlow isn't listening. Neither is Rollins. Their attention is fully on Cap, who is sobbing.

"I'm sorry," he stammers once he's calmed enough to speak. "I just—it's stupid. Some leader I am, huh? Can't even handle a movie without—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head.

"Hey," Rumlow says. He used to be head of the STRIKE team and that's a position that involves dealing with at least some amount of hysteria. He's got this. Except he can't think of what to say past "hey."

Cap waves him off. "I'm fine. I was—I'm fine."

"You're not the only person who's ever teared up at a movie, big guy. Hell, I've gotten the waterworks once or twice myself, right? Rollins?"

"Like a busted pipe," Rollins says.

He glares. "Not what I fucking meant—whatever. Listen, Rogers, you got Netflix? Here, you can watch me sob over _E.T._ and see a classic piece of cinema at the same time. It's therapeutic. Everyone wins."

So they do, and Cap's sniffling subsides long before Rumlow's starts up.

Pierce, Rumlow's sure, would not approve of this evening, but who cares? Free popcorn and a show and now they know just the words and scenarios to reduce Captain America to tears. Everyone wins.

Including Frank Grillo, who gets that Oscar come February.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 2003, Callan Mulvey was in a near-fatal accident which gave him the scar on his face. He was also blinded in one eye and required seventeen titanium plates to be inserted in his face during surgical reconstruction.
> 
> Frank Grillo was on the US soap opera _Guiding Light_ from 1996 to 1999. He also did appear for all of two scenes in [Season 3, Episode 9 of the crime drama _Silk Stalkings_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UGiqCrkWjSQ) as a stripper. A stripper named Franco LaPuma. In a rainbow Speedo.
> 
> Leonard H. "Bones" McCoy is the doctor on _Star Trek: The Original Series._
> 
> "You think you can do these things but you _can't_ , Bucky!" Yes, I did just [_Finding Nemo_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O_u4h_N2lTw) it up. No, I have no shame.


	4. Day Four: Work/Villainy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for Day Four of Rumlow Week is Work/Villainy.

A reliable gauge of how bloody a mission will be is how long the Soldier’s been out of cryo beforehand. 

This is the Soldier’s fifth active day. He was meant to complete his mission on his second day free of the tank, but the target was delayed by two days. And a sandstorm prevented the team from completing their mission on the fourth day. So here they are. 

The Soldier rapidly deteriorates if not continuously occupied, and there’s little the technicians or the field agents can do about it. There’s nothing to engage the Soldier’s mind but his mission, and with his innate knowledge of tactics and weaponry, it doesn’t take long for the Soldier to work through every possible hypothetical scenario. Leaving his brain with nothing to do. He can’t reflect on previous missions; he doesn’t remember them. Even if he were permitted to daydream, there’s nowhere for his mind to wander. 

Rumlow had him spar with a few team members on the third day but that was hardly a mental feat for the Soldier. And it had led to minor injuries for the others. Half of the fourth day was spent drugged to unconsciousness; Rumlow had ordered him to get some rest, but even natural sleep was trained out of him. 

It’s an hour before the mission now and Rumlow is watching as the Soldier trudges through his approximation of eating. 

The Soldier isn’t permitted the usual MREs; he can’t digest them and they don’t contain the right nutrients for his enhanced body. In the lab he lives off of IVs. In the field, they mix specially engineered protein powder with water until it’s at the consistency of a smoothie and order him to drink it down. The stuff looks and faintly smells like vomit. 

The Soldier doesn’t look happy. He never looks happy, of course, but it’s slightly more pronounced now. 

He also keeps looking around. At just one or two days out, the Soldier keeps his eyes forward, gaze steady. He’s not yet erratic, but he’s not perfectly focused. In this state, there’s no question he can easily slaughter a room full of people. The more time he spends out of cryo, the more prone to excessive violence he becomes, after all. 

The issue being that they aren’t out to kill this target. Not immediately, anyway. 

Rumlow takes the photos from the mission file, spreading them over the floor. “Show me the target.” 

The Soldier points her out easily. They’re going after a hydraulic engineer on a government contract. She’s developing some new system of irrigation that could revolutionize desert farming and disrupt HYDRA’s hold on a number of economies. Not that the Soldier needs to know that. He just needs to know which person not to shoot. 

“And your objective for this target?” 

The Soldier swallows another mouthful, coughs. “Extraction not elimination.” He makes it all one word, reciting rote. His voice is like a rusted pipe. 

“Good,” Rumlow says, and the Soldier hums into the glass. He’s trained to know that good is desirable, good means a lack of pain. “And what damage is acceptable during extraction?” There are stories about the Soldier, legends that once upon a time, he assumed everyone was as resilient as he was and so applied deadly force without realizing it. It’s probably bullshit. But Rumlow doesn’t like taking chances when the Soldier’s at anything less than top form. 

The Soldier doesn’t answer, still dutifully drinking. His boots shuffle a little on the floor, like a kid stuck inside on a sunny day. 

“Soldier.” 

When the Soldier takes too long in responding, Rumlow makes the mistake of reaching out and forcing the man’s head up. Ordinarily, it’s an action the Soldier would accept. Ordinarily, he’s not dealing with the Soldier five days out of cryo. 

The world blurs around him and then Rumlow’s pinned to the floor, a cold metal forearm pressing into his throat. The Soldier’s above him, teeth bared. For a moment he’s still. Then his right hand is flying over Rumlow’s body, leaving sharp, stinging impacts that aren’t quite punches. Considering the Soldier’s strength, they must be his equivalent to a light tap. Rumlow’s brain has gone into fight or flight mode and it takes him longer than it should to realize that the Soldier’s _complying._ He’s demonstrating the acceptable areas for damage. He just happens to be using Rumlow’s body to do it. 

That completed, he returns to the glass and resumes drinking. 

Rumlow hauls himself up. He doesn’t say _good_ because the Soldier hasn’t been. “Finish your breakfast,” he orders, stalking off. 

An hour later and the Soldier is through the doors of the research center containing the target, guns ready. The rest of the team, having cut the landlines and jammed the wireless and cell signals, waits outside to pick off anyone who might manage to slip by the Soldier. 

Rumlow hears Anders through his headset. “Immolation.” 

It’s a game they play whenever the Soldier is out, betting on the most outlandish way he might lay someone to waste. 

“Decapitation,” Rollins answers. 

Rumlow pushes the sunglasses up on his nose. They’re a ridiculous wraparound pair, covering and chafing on most of his face, but it’s a necessary evil. Now that Grillo’s performance has won the Oscar, a number of reporters and civilians have taken an interest in the real Brock Rumlow. If anyone recognizes him, he knows his life won’t be worth shit in Pierce’s eyes. It’s a long shot, but he’s not willing to risk it. “Drowning,” he says, because really, what are the odds? 

It’s not ten minutes before a burning man comes crashing through the window. Rumlow blinks once and puts a bullet in his head. “Anders wins,” he announces, briefly muting the headset so he won’t be deafened by her shriek of success. 

Another five minutes pass with no sign of the Soldier. There’s no way it would take more than a quarter of an hour for him to complete this mission. 

There’s a pulse of anxiety in Rumlow’s stomach. The odds of any damage to the Soldier are astronomical, but they need this target alive long enough to extract every location of her research in order to destroy it. If the Soldier’s gone to pieces faster than expected and he’s reducing her to human salsa in there, Pierce is going to be furious. And the Soldier won’t be the one to take the brunt of the punishment. 

Rumlow steps inside through the shattered window, ordering the others to keep watch. There are bodies littered throughout. Most have been shot, one eviscerated. There’s no sign of any sort of fire, which makes the smoldering corpse outside all the more bizarre. 

The Soldier is standing before a desk. The target is on the ground beside him, unconscious but breathing steadily enough. No visible injuries. The Soldier’s eyes aren’t on her. 

Rather, he’s staring at the apple on her desk. 

There’s a single bite taken from it and the flesh of the fruit hasn’t even browned; she must have bit into it just as the Soldier came in. And now he’s transfixed, like the world has ceased to exist beyond this little, green, slightly bruised apple. 

He’s not far gone enough to take off the mask without permission. Definitely not deteriorated to the point of putting something in his mouth without orders to do so. 

But he’s able to _want._

And maybe, maybe if the Soldier’s eyes had fallen on a bag of chips or a cereal bar or something else highly processed, Rumlow might have let him have it. Maybe if Rumlow could be sure putting real food in the Soldier wouldn’t lead to gagging throughout the plane ride home, he’d tell him to slide off the mask. Maybe it would keep the Soldier grounded, giving him a taste of fresh fruit for the first time in possibly decades. 

Maybe. But it’s not procedure. It’d probably make him sick. 

And maybe, if the Soldier’s after a reward, he should have thought of that before he tackled Rumlow. 

“Soldier,” Rumlow orders, and the Soldier’s not yet far gone enough to look back as Rumlow leads him out. 


	5. Day Five: Off Duty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for Day Five of Rumlow Week is Off Duty – Family, Hobbies, Free Time.
> 
> Many, many thanks to [Arande_Nim](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Arande_Nim/pseuds/Arande_Nim) for suggesting the name “Brocktopus.”

“So is true that baseball games went quicker in your day?” 

It’s hard to imagine a game going any _slower._ Rumlow would be nodding off on the couch, except passing out on top of Steve Rogers is not an option. Particularly in Rumlow’s own apartment, and especially when Rumlow invited him over to watch this game to begin with. 

This was meant to be a team excursion. STRIKE tends to get together after missions, usually to unwind over a few beers. Once they were ordered to keep close watch on Cap, it only made sense to include him. Most times, he goes along easily enough. But since the whole waterworks over a movie incident, the Captain’s been spending more time to himself. 

So Rumlow got the idea to lure him with baseball. It had really been the national pastime in Cap’s day, after all, and every biography about the guy mentioned his love of the game. Except Anders had to visit her family and Rollins said he’d rather swallow cyanide, and between the rest of the team’s conflicts and excuses, it’s down now to just Rumlow and Cap. 

“Yeah, they did.” There’s no way Cap’s getting any sort of a buzz from the beer in his hand. Rumlow wonders if he likes the taste or if he’s only drinking because his companion is. “A lot of stuff’s changed these days—we didn’t have the replays, of course, I swear the strike zone’s different, and then, you know, that Dodgers moving to LA thing.” 

“You still sore about that?” 

“A little.” Cap sighs. “It’s just—even the familiar things, the things that have lasted, they’ve changed. Not so much that you don’t know what’s going on, but. Just enough to get you good and comfortable and jerk the rug out from under you.” A shake of the head. “Sorry, I don’t mean to complain.” 

“Everybody needs to vent now and then. It helps.” And knowing all Captain America’s insecurities certainly makes Rumlow’s job easier. 

Cap just shakes his head again, eyes drifting away from the TV. His gaze seems to focus on the bookshelf, though Rumlow can’t make out what it is he’s staring at. Shit. His Captain America USO DVDs are hidden away at the back of a closet, right? 

Right? 

“Can I ask you something?” Cap asks, and Rumlow tries not to visibly brace himself. 

“Shoot.” 

“What’s the reason for all the squids?” 

Rumlow blinks. Then leans forward to look around Cap at the floppy, pink, plush octopus draped on the shelf. _Damn it, Rollins._

The octopus—named Two Beers, because _of course_ —had been a gift from Rollins. A gift that was supposed to be hidden in the closet with those DVDs. This is why Rollins shouldn’t be left unsupervised in the apartment for any length of time. 

“That’s an octopus,” Rumlow says, to buy time while he tries to invent an explanation other than _I can’t hold liquor and my friends are dicks._

“Oh.” That doesn’t bring any understanding to Cap’s face. “What’s with the octopuses, then?”

Right. It’s not just about this one octopus. 

No one who’s in HYDRA is dumb enough to ever say anything that could compromise their organization. No matter how drunk, how hurt, how in _love_ they may be, everyone knows what happens to anyone who betrays HYDRA. Everyone carries that fear down to their bones. But there’s a thrill in innocuous little symbols, innocent phrases. Things that could never trace back to HYDRA, things no one would think to try and trace back. 

And somewhere along the line, tentacles became one of those symbols. 

When HYDRA agents go drinking, someone’s sure to order Kraken. The previous STRIKE leader before Rumlow carried an octopus keychain. One of the technicians who last brought the Soldier out of cryo wore tentacle earrings. Anders has a squid necklace and nightgown, and on one mission she’d brought along a crocheted squid, a gift her boyfriend had made. 

“He just thinks I’m really into cephalopods,” she’d explained. “Next weekend we’re going to an aquarium.” 

They’d photographed everyone with the squid, even the Soldier. That picture had been taken in heavy shadows, with the face and arm concealed. 

Rumlow could lie. He could say the whole team got food poisoning from bad calamari once and it’s become a running gag. Something like that. But then he’d have to let everyone else know and trust them to remember, and that’s too much effort. He ought to shrug, say they just all like octopuses, act like he’s never noticed. That would be smart. 

Rumlow’s not smart, not once there are a couple of beers in him. “I hug like an octopus,” he says, cursing internally the second the words are out of his mouth. Too late. Damage done. “It’s, uh, it’s a joke with the team.” 

He’d like to think his face isn’t burning, but given the way Cap averts his eyes, it absolutely is. 

There’s a moment of silence. It’s a damn shame this is his apartment, or Rumlow would give serious thought to diving out the window. 

“I’ve never noticed,” Cap says. Is he smirking? 

“Well, the hugs were a team-building exercise.” Rumlow shrugs. “You stole my team. You don’t get a hug.” 

“I could abuse my authority and order you.” He _is_ smirking, the bastard. 

“I only hug when I’m drunk.” And with that, he sets his beer down on the coffee table. “And I try not to get drunk in front of my commanding officer. Like to pretend I’ve got some dignity left, you know?” 

“Seems like you’re getting there now.” Cap finishes his own bottle and there’s not even a hint of a flush to his face. His fucking perfect face. Life is cruel beyond reason. 

“Says the guy who drank half my booze.” 

“Hey, I’m doing you a favor,” Cap protests. “This is _awful_. The sooner it’s gone, the sooner you can buy something decent.” 

“Christ, Captain America’s a beer snob.” Rumlow rubs at his temples. “Or a hipster. I can’t tell which is worse. What kind of example are you setting for the children, big guy?” 

“The kind with quality alcohol.” Cap stands up, still grinning like an all American asshole, and starts toward the bathroom. “I’ll be right back.” 

Rumlow promptly moves his feet into the space where Cap was and picks up his phone. He sends a group text to all the STRIKE team, minus their fearless leader. It reads: “Rogers wants to know what’s up with the squids.” 

[text received from: Julie] TELL HIM YOU’RE INTO TENTACLE PORN

[text received from: Jack] Is he at your place? 

“Yes,” Rumlow sends. Then: “Yes to Jack. Not you, Anders.” Then: “You’re fucked in the head, Anders.” 

[text received from: Julie] I am a GIFT sir

From Rollins, there’s only silence. 

“What’s it named?” 

Rumlow jumps about a foot in the air. Cap is examining the octopus on the book shelf. The man is unable to get drunk or sick, ridiculously strong, and now perfectly silent. Oh, what a world. “What?” 

“This guy,” Cap says, tapping his fingers on one of its tentacles. “Is it called Brocktopus?” 

Rumlow chokes on air. “It’s called _Fuck you Rogers._ ”

“Brocktopus is better.” There’s a sing-song, teasing note to Cap’s voice and Rumlow’s torn between bashing his brains out or lamenting the fact that not a single history book illustrates just what a _dork_ this guy is. 

“Yeah? Then I hope he _hugs_ better, ‘cause you’ve just lost your Brock privileges.” 

“He’s certainly a better conversationalist.” Cap balances the octopus on his shoulder, half of its tentacles wrapped around his neck like a scarf. 

Rumlow has to snap a picture, of course. He can’t let the rest of the team miss out on the sight of Captain America snuggled up to an octopus. 

“Maybe I should get one,” Cap says later, once he’s settled back on the couch. “An octopus, I mean. If they’re the team mascot.” 

Hilarious as the thought of Steve Rogers unknowingly buying a little HYDRA effigy is, the man will probably get suspicious if Rumlow starts howling with laughter. So he forces out words instead of giggles. “Did the Commandos ever have a mascot?” 

“Not officially.” There’s a little wistful smile on Cap’s face and while he’s staring at the TV, he isn’t seeing the game. “Bucky, sorta.” 

“Barnes?” 

“You know how those USO comics portrayed him as a kid, with the red tights?” Cap asks. “Bucky _hated_ that, but the rest of the team got such a kick out of ribbing him for it. One of ‘em—Dum Dum, usually—was always sure to have a page from the comic torn out and on display whenever we turned in. They tried to get him to wear short pants for them, a couple of times. I half-expected him to lose it and shoot us all.” 

“Sounds like my kinda guy,” Rumlow says. 

“You’d have liked him.” Cap shakes his head. “Hey, you know that movie about us? I watched it again last week. Made it all the way through this time.” 

“Why would you do that to yourself?” 

“It’s just a movie.” His shoulders draw in a little. “And I still get asked about it at press conferences, now and then. I figured I should at least finish it. And it wasn’t _bad_. A little melodramatic in parts, but not bad.” 

“You gotta be a little melodramatic to take any Oscars these days,” Rumlow says, returning to his beer. 

“And speaking of that.” Cap shakes his head. “Don’t get me wrong, your guy was fine, but I don’t understand how _he_ got Best Supporting but Evans didn’t get Best Actor.” 

“Jealous?” Rumlow reaches out to pat his shoulder. “Hey, they might make a sequel. Then Evans could really get a chance to shine.” 

“About what? Most of our missions aren’t exactly Hollywood material.” 

No, they haven’t been. All bloody and messy and unpalatable. And it won’t get any nicer once Insight’s ready, just more efficient. “Then they’ll just have to wait for the right one. Something big, dramatic. World-changing.” 

With a sigh, Cap settles back. “I’d like to be done with world-changing for a while. Maybe forever.” 

Rumlow grins. “Maybe you oughta retire, old timer. Give me my job back.” 

By way of a reply, Cap gently smacks him with the octopus. 


	6. Day Six: Not Safe for Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for Day Six of Rumlow Week is Not Safe for Work.

There are half a dozen trigger phrases to immobilize the Soldier, but none of them does a damn bit of good when a metal hand clamps down over Rumlow’s mouth. 

The Soldier’s other hand is at his collar, dragging him, and Rumlow struggles but he might as well be a newborn kitten pawing at a tiger for all the good it does. When he tries reaching for his taser, the Soldier does _something_ —too fast for Rumlow to see through his panic and it doesn’t feel like those mismatched hands even move—and the resulting flare of pain through his wrist shorts out Rumlow’s vision and persuades him not to try it again. 

They’re awaiting extraction in Russia, holed up in a mildewed and freezing safe house. They were out at the crack of dawn slinking around in frigid swampland, and Rumlow had nearly cried with relief when the mission was completed and Rollins had offered to take care of cleaning the Soldier so the commander could grab a shower. For the first time since they shipped out, things had started looking up. 

Until he was getting dressed and the Soldier had kicked in the bathroom door, grabbed hold of Rumlow, and had begun to drag him away. 

Objectively, he realizes it only takes seconds for them to reach the room at the end of the hall, but for all he knows the Soldier’s going to snap his neck or rip out his bowels, and it feels like they’re moving for an eternity. His heart is pounding so loud in his ears he can’t hear it when the Soldier slams the door behind them. He’s frozen, unable to move or breathe or do anything but stare when the Soldier pins him against the wall, crashing his mouth against Rumlow’s. 

He’s questioning his perception of reality as the Soldier forces his tongue in. It’s not a kiss; it’s an exploration. The Soldier kisses like he’s checking Rumlow for strep, like he’s trying to suck out his _soul_. When he pulls away his lips are reddened and swollen and Rumlow can feel that his own mouth is in the same condition. Rumlow is breathless, horrified, uncomfortably aroused. His body’s slumped against the wall, brain full of white noise, and the only coherent thought he can hold onto is that he _knows_ that kiss. He’s felt it before, not from the Soldier but from—

“Rollins,” he manages, glaring at the second in command, who’s watching from the foot of the rundown bed and grinning like a douchebag. 

“Commander,” Rollins says, no trace of that smirk in his even tone. He gives a little nod and then the Soldier’s mouth is sealed on Rumlow’s throat like a leech, sucking bruises into his skin. “You like your present?” 

And because Rumlow’s always been remarkably, recklessly stupid, he’s hard as hell. Still, it’s difficult to enjoy that sensation when he has nearly two hundred pounds of killing machine shoved against his windpipe, when Rollins is leering at him, when he’s still struggling to work out what the hell is going on. “What _is_ this?” 

Rollins doesn’t even try to play innocent. “Since you like super soldiers so much…” Shrugging, he trails off. 

Rumlow doesn’t get the chance to parse the meaning before Rollins beckons and the Soldier is hauling Rumlow, throwing him onto the bed. The frame creaks and groans beneath them and if it’s a wonder that it doesn’t give out under Rollins and Rumlow’s combined weight, then it’s a miracle it holds when the Soldier sits on Rumlow’s legs, trapping him on the mattress. 

“What the fuck is this?” Rumlow hisses. He may be an idiot, but he doesn’t have a death wish. And lying exposed beneath the Soldier is like flaunting a piece of steak in front of an attack dog. The Soldier has fits of violence sometimes, bursts of aggression he seems unable to control. At only two days out of the tank, it’s unlikely. But not impossible. Rumlow shifts against the mattress, trying to slip free without setting the Soldier off. 

But then Rollins is moving on the bed, his hands finding Rumlow’s shoulders and pinning him down. Rumlow could fight his way free but struggling while beneath the Winter Soldier is just asking to trigger an attack. Forcing himself to lie still, he tries to ignore the adrenaline churning in him, the pulsing of his heartbeat in his ears, the distracting and far too prominent ache between his legs. 

“What’s wrong, Commander?” Rollins asks. “Should I have bleached his hair first?” 

The Soldier’s body is pressing down, mouth hot as he nips and sucks on Rumlow’s throat, but even though there’s fire coursing through his veins, he hardly registers the contact. “That’s what this is about?” The baseball game last week, Cap at his apartment, the photos he’d sent to the team— _that’s_ what provoked this? 

Fucking hell. 

“I’m going to kill you,” he growls, regretting it when he remembers the Soldier at his neck. But the Soldier doesn’t respond, still suckling at Rumlow’s collarbone like it’s his latest mission. And maybe Rollins convinced him it is. 

“The Captain wouldn’t approve of that,” Rollins reaches out to stroke the Soldier’s hair, guiding his head. “Good boy.” His voice is soft, his face the picture of control, but his hand is shaking, and that sight ought to make Rumlow flag. Whatever Rollins has told the Soldier, however he’s coached him, this is playing with fire and Rollins knows it. He’s taking HYDRA’s most powerful weapon and forcing it to act well out of its parameters. He’s practically daring the worst to happen. 

It _ought_ to make Rumlow flag. In actuality, it makes him harder. 

“Good boy,” Rollins repeats. He releases his hand once the Soldier is fully upright, gaze darting between the commander and the second in command like he doesn’t know where to look, to listen. “You remember what to do next? What we talked about?” 

The Soldier’s eyes drop back to Rumlow, though when Rollins pets his hair again he leans into the touch. The Soldier always melts under soft contact, which is why it’s so rarely used. They don’t want him to come to expect it, to be desensitized if they need it to control him. 

“You’re going to open his pants for me,” Rollins says. “You’re going to take the commander’s cock in your mouth and you’re going to suck until he’s shaking and arching and _begging_ for release. You’re going to suck him until he loses his mind. Can you do that for me, Soldier?” His voice is still gentle but it’s taken a dark edge, and Rumlow misses whatever reply the Soldier gives because he can’t keep his eyes from fluttering shut. 

They fly back open when the Soldier tugs on Rumlow’s strained zipper. The Soldier’s hand is on him, pulling, and he’s not gentle and the air is freezing but Rumlow’s never been harder in his life. The Soldier stares down at him, his face as blankly analytical as when he reads through a mission briefing, and Rumlow’s cock twitches. And the Soldier just sits like he’s waiting for the commander’s word. 

He should order the Soldier off. Use one of the trigger phrases that renders the asset slack and docile. This is suicide; even if the Soldier doesn’t bite off his dick or snap his spine, Pierce will put a slug between his eyes should he hear about it. He should stop this now. 

But fuck, even the _thought_ of those lips around his cock…

“Soldier,” is the only thing Rumlow can manage when he forces himself to speak. It’s the only word his mind can form. He’s torn between ordering the Soldier away or urging him on, but he doesn’t get the chance to do either because the Soldier takes the word as affirmation and lowers his head, taking Rumlow in his mouth. 

There’s no teasing, no kisses, no strokes of his hand or swipes from his tongue. He just chokes himself on Rumlow’s cock, lips grazing the coarse hair at the base, nose brushing against Rumlow’s abdomen, and _sucks,_ cheeks hollowed around the length. He doesn’t even bob his head. 

“Fuh—fucking _lunatic_.” The words are rasped. He glares at Rollins, hands clenching on the mattress, biting his lip to keep from letting another sound slip. It’s possible the Soldier won’t respond to moaning and whining like a shark to blood, but he fucking _might_.

Rollins, the bastard, is still smirking like the cat that got the cream. “This is a good look for you,” he murmurs, lowering his own head so his jaw grazes Rumlow’s ear. “Hot and bothered and completely helpless. It’s nice.” 

There are no shortage of threats and insults that rise in Rumlow’s mind. If he trusted himself to open his mouth, they’d come spilling out like a desperate, fevered prayer. But if he tries to speak, the words would melt into whimpers and howls and he can’t lower himself that way before the Soldier. He _won’t_ lower himself in front of Rollins. 

He tries to lie still and silent, tries to _remember_ to lie still and silent. 

But the Soldier has taken “shaking and arching and begging for release” literally. Every second that passes quietly is a signal to try harder. He sucks like he doesn’t need air, lips spasming around Rumlow’s cock. Testing. Trying to work out how to make him lose his mind. 

And he’s not doing a bad job of it. 

Rumlow bites through his lip, his breaths coming out in sharp, rapid pants. He’s soaked with sweat, trembling, and the Soldier’s eyes keep flicking up, assessing his reactions to the stimuli. 

“Perfect, Soldier,” Rollins says, soft words at odds with the wide and sadistic grin twisting his mouth. The contrast is dizzying. Or maybe Rumlow’s just already dizzy with how badly he needs to come. Rollins lifts his hand and Rumlow thinks he’s reaching out to pet the Soldier again. Instead he rakes his nails lightly down Rumlow’s chest. 

“Don’t be rude, Commander,” he chides over Rumlow’s gasp. “Let him know how good he’s being.” 

“You fucking son of a bitch,” Rumlow does not say, though not for lack of trying. It comes out as a hoarse and shaking whimper, which in turn motivates the Soldier to do something indescribable and _filthy_ with his mouth. 

The tension is mounting, unbearable. His vision is going white at the edges, threatening to flicker out completely. His heart is too fast to make out the beats, a deafening and continuous pressure throughout him. He’s racked with contractions, biting into his tongue, hips tightening, twitching, thrusting into the Soldier’s mouth without care or control, reaching the point of no return—

And Rollins says, “Good boy” and Rollins says “Enough,” and the Soldier sits back, leaving Rumlow with nothing but air on his cock. 

A spasm ripples through Rumlow’s body. It’s not release; it’s a physical manifestation of frustration. Rollins has hold of his wrists so he can’t even jerk himself, and when Rumlow’s mouth falls open he unleashes a torrent of curses. He thinks they’re curses. He thinks they’re _English_. It’s hard to tell. 

The Soldier stares down at him, head tilted. Like he isn’t sure if he’s succeeded at his mission. He looks to Rollins and Rollins maybe tells him how good he is except it’s like Rumlow is listening to a foreign language through a tunnel. 

If not for the pounding in his ears and his groin, Rumlow would think his heart’s stopped. 

Better if it had. Then he wouldn’t be stuck with this overwhelming pressure. 

“Give me your hand,” he hears Rollins say, far away, as his hips thrust weakly against nothing and he prays for death. 

“Your other hand,” Rollins says, and Rumlow’s eyes open. 

The Soldier’s metal hand is extended. Rollins takes his own hand off of Rumlow’s wrist—immediately pinning it again with his knee, that _bastard_ —and he pulls a bottle of literal, actual gun oil from his pocket. 

A bastard and an idiot. This is the life Rumlow leads. 

“It’s all right,” Rollins tells the Soldier, spreading it over his fingers. “It won’t damage you, it’s _for_ weapons. All it’s gonna do is get your fingers nice and slick so you can put them in the commander, all right, like we talked about?” 

A nod. Rumlow feels his brain unstitching. 

“Good. You’ll just start with one finger, slide it in and out until he opens up enough for you to add another. And if he cries or begs or pitches a fit, that’s not damage. That’s what you want. It’s very, very good and you’ll be very, very good if you can make him do it. Understand?” 

Another nod. 

“Good boy. Don’t keep him waiting.” 

The Soldier shifts his weight back on Rumlow’s legs, spreading the man’s thighs a little wider. There’s a finger pressed against him, slipping in him, and the metal is smooth and rigid and like _ice_. It ought to be hell. It ought to destroy the aching need between his legs. And he’s twitching, shivering from the inside out but his cock hasn’t gotten the memo, flushed and dripping and throbbing as before. 

“C—could have fuh-fucking warmed him _up_ ,” he stammers. Rollins is leaning over him and he imagines tearing out the man’s throat. 

“You know, I thought of letting him fuck you,” Rollins says conversationally. “I’d let him work you open with his fingers and his tongue, get you really howling, and then let him slide in. But I’m not actually sure he can get it up. And I didn’t want to play around in his pants to find out. I’m a busy man.” 

The Soldier’s finger is slipping deeper and shallower in slow strokes, warming far too fucking slowly to match the body around him. “You’re a goddamn jealous _schoolgirl_ ,” Rumlow spits, clenching involuntarily around the intrusion. “You’re insane.” 

And Rollins pouts, tsks, wags a finger in Rumlow’s face. “Not the smartest way to talk to the guy with his hand on the trigger, Bones. But you’ve never been all that smart. It’s all right,” he adds, softer, as the Soldier casts a questioning glance between them. “You’re doing really well.” 

Another finger—even colder than the first, if that’s fucking possible—slides in unexpectedly, making Rumlow arch and swear. 

The Soldier strokes. Minutes pass, pressure mounting, smirk ever smugger on Rollins’s face. 

“Bend your fingers, Soldier,” he says, and Rumlow chokes when the asset complies. “Good boy. Can you drag your fingers over his insides for me? There’s gonna be a place that makes him jump and moan, can you find it?” 

The Soldier slides his crooked fingers, and the world falls away. 

Rumlow jolts up, only his legs and wrists still touching the mattress. His stomach tightens; a low and needy, shameful noise tears out of his throat. Above him, Rollins is reaching out and patting the Soldier’s head, like he’s done a fucking trick. Above him, Rollins is saying “Good boy, now rub your fingers there.” 

And he rubs. _Fuck_ does he rub. Rollins didn’t bother to tell him to be gentle and of course the Soldier wouldn’t think to be and he scours with his fingers like he’s trying to get a goddamn _spot_ out. There are sparks in Rumlow’s vision; the wiring’s stripping in his mind. And it _hurts_ , it hurts like hell, it’s too damn much, it’s _killing_ him, but he’s arching into it, using what little control he retains of his body to push back against the Soldier’s steel fingers. 

_Stop_ , he wants to beg, and _too much_ and _fuck_. But he can’t speak, can’t force the loud, broken moans spilling out of him into coherent words. His breaths are ragged and rapid and when Rollins leans forward, speaking to the Soldier, Rumlow can’t make out the command. 

He manages, though, to guess what it was seconds later, when the Soldier swallows his cock down again. 

The friction from those metal fingers decreases just a fraction, the Soldier distracted by the task for his mouth, and that little release is just enough for pleasure to flood his being along with the pain. 

The Soldier keeps his head as it was before, low and immobile, and Rollins chuckles in Rumlow’s ear, reaching out. 

“Like this,” he says, rocking the Soldier’s head up and down Rumlow’s length, “and use your tongue.” 

And somehow Rumlow doesn’t shoot off right at the sight. 

The Soldier’s tongue moves in a long, hot stripe down Rumlow’s cock as his fingers press insistently. 

The rasped and whining noises slipping out of him transform into “ _more_ ” and “ _please_ ” and “ _haaah oh god oh god oh Christ feels so good_ ” and Rollins laughs against his fevered skin but he can’t bring himself to care. Rollins is kissing his neck then, scratching his nails over Rumlow’s flesh, and he’s going to fall to pieces from all the sensations coursing through him but at the same time he’s begging for more. 

The Soldier’s lips are glistening with his own spit and Rumlow’s pre-come, his eyes wet with exertion and curious as he watches Rumlow breaking down. What little of Rumlow that can still think wonders if the Soldier understands, if he even knows what sex _is_ , if he’ll react to seed shooting into his mouth as he would to an attack. 

And Rumlow thinks that if the Soldier tears him apart after the orgasm, he probably wouldn’t mind. 

Then he can’t think at all and Rollins is licking at his throat, and the Soldier’s face is flushing with maybe more than just effort because where their legs press together, Rumlow can feel sudden heat and hardness and it isn’t from him. 

There are tears of strain spilling down Rumlow’s face, a growing ring in his ears, and his body is too tight, overflowing with need, breaking—

And Rollins pulls away and says sharply, “Stop.” 

The Soldier’s mouth and hands are off of him. That’s all Rumlow can process. The world has suddenly expanded and his mind can’t keep pace. 

“Such a good boy,” Rollins says, his hands tight around Rumlow’s trembling wrists. “Such a good soldier. Is something wrong?”

The Soldier is staring down, not at Rumlow’s red and dripping, twitching cock, but into his own lap. The fabric is taut. He raises his head again, eyes downcast, face flushed. He doesn’t seem to understand. 

The sweat is cooling on Rumlow’s skin. He tries to knit the tattered ravels of his mind back together. 

“I can help you,” Rollins tells the Soldier. “You’ve been so good today, you’ve earned a very special reward. Go and wait for me in the bathroom, all right?” 

And the Soldier nods, slides off of Rumlow. The loss of contact draws the faintest whine, but the Soldier doesn’t look back. His gait is slow, a hair too wide, and then he’s gone. 

“You can jerk yourself off,” Rollins murmurs, nipping at Rumlow’s throat. “I won’t stop you. But good luck, when you do, and when you’re next with the _Captain_ , good luck not thinking of this. Of us. Of _me_.” 

Rollins doesn’t stay to watch him, doesn’t hear the muffled sob of _Jack_ that he tries to bury in his fist as he spills weakly. Rumlow can’t decide whether or not that’s a comfort. 


	7. Day Seven: Free Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for Day Seven of Rumlow Week is a free day. I just chose to wrap it all up with this one.

There are some things best swept under the rug.

The mission in Russia is definitely one of those things.

Extraction comes and goes without incident. Rumlow is aching and exhausted, feeling Rollins's smirk even when he isn't facing the man, and pretty sure he's going to have nightmares about the Soldier's icy metal prosthetic for months. But Rollins at least has the dignity—or more the brains, more likely—to keep his mouth shut, and the Soldier doesn't report any abnormalities upon return to base.

The Soldier goes back to the ice. Rollins's shit-eating grin whenever he meets Rumlow's eye eventually dwindles to a small, knowing smile. Life returns to what passes as normal for a HYDRA double agent.

The Black Widow is brought in from STRIKE Team Delta to assist on the missions. The continued intrusions to his team and their established dynamic ought to make Rumlow see red, but they're only a few months out from the launch of Insight. There won't _be_ a Widow after that.

Or Captain America, for that matter.

Besides, the Widow spends the first transit trying to set Cap up with various SHIELD employees, gravely informing the rest of team that the man hasn't had a date since 1945. That, combined with her frighteningly good prowess in the field, makes her presence almost welcome.

It's no surprise when the mission, intercepting an illegal arms shipment, escalates into combat. It is a surprise when Rumlow finds Cap at his side, slamming the shield into terrorists' heads and asking about Rumlow's plans for a few weeks from now.

"The Nationals are playing the Yankees," he explains, not even looking in the direction he flings the shield. "You're a Yankees fan, aren't you?"

In the sense that Rumlow's from New York, yeah. He reloads his gun, grins, fires. "Sure, the team could use a night out."

"Do the others _like_ baseball?" Cap catches the shield, quickly turning, and Rumlow hears bone crunch. "None of them caught that last game."

"Scheduling conflicts, big guy."

There's a splatter of blood over the white star of the Captain's chest. It isn't Cap's, but there's a thrill in seeing it there nonetheless. He shrugs, face unreadable. "All right, then."

Rumlow dreams of the Soldier that night, for the first time he can remember since the mission in Russia. It isn't a nightmare.

Three weeks later, and the team gathers at the Nationals Park for the game, even the Widow. Anders gives Cap a gift bag with an octopus hoodie inside. "I didn't want you to feel left out," she said, and even though there's a bright blush spreading over Cap's face, his smile couldn't get any wider. They swipe the drink and the hot dog from his hands and cajole him into the hoodie, shrieking with laughter as he slides it onto his shoulders. He stands there, screen-printed tentacles wrapped around his waist, looking like a kid on Christmas morning. Rumlow snaps a picture and Rollins slaps a hand across the back of his head for it, but Rumlow's laughing too hard to register the impact.

The Widow just stares and calls Cap a national disaster. The game is completely forgotten amidst their mirth.

A month later and Cap, the Widow, and Rumlow are sent on alone on a stealth mission to recover a lost SHIELD weapon in Chicago. Cap is all righteous fury and indignation; SHIELD won't tell them just what the Zodiac weapon does or how they lost it. They'd initially denied having possession of the device in the first place. Cap wants to be able to trust Fury and the other higher-ups. He wants to know what they're not telling him.

_Quite a lot_ , Rumlow thinks, holding in a smirk. The guy's so clueless as to what's right in front of him, blinded by the ideal fantasy world he carries in his head. It's pitiable, really. Cap wants so badly to do the right thing, to save the world with honor and honesty and free will. Hell, sometimes he'll get going on one of his rants and even Rumlow will feel inspired. It's not personal. But HYDRA has an order, and Cap's a proven spanner in the works. Poor bastard. He could have done so much good if he had a lick of sense.

To recover the Zodiac, Cap launches himself through the window of the Willis Tower. With no parachute. It's up to Rumlow to grapple his stupid ass back inside.

That's a metaphor for their whole relationship, really. Reckless idealism that can't survive without cold, unflinching practicality. And pretty soon, practicality will stop extending the lifeline.

Rumlow nearly tells Rollins about the parachute thing, but Rollins was sore enough about sitting this one out in the first place.

Another two months pass and Rumlow dreams of the Soldier again. He wakes in the middle of the night and spends maybe half an hour standing in the kitchen, staring blankly into his freezer's ice maker. They'll be thawing the Soldier tomorrow; they need him to tie up loose ends before the launch of Insight. It might just be his last mission ever.

It's not his place, but Rumlow can't help but wonder what will become of the Soldier once his talents as a ghost are no longer in demand. Kept as a bodyguard? A back-up? Or just put to pasture, disposed of like a rabid dog?

The last option is the most likely. The Soldier's an expensive pet, difficult to maintain and all too easy to set off. It stings a little, the thought of their oldest and certainly hardest working soldier dispatched unceremoniously with a bullet to the brain, but HYDRA has no room for dissent. For sentiment.

That evening he's boarding the Quinjet and Rollins stands wincing, rubbing at the side of his face.

"What's with you?"

Rollins glances around before answering. They're alone. "The Soldier dislocated my jaw."

"What?"

"One of the guys who was supposed to stand guard when they thawed the Soldier got sick." Rollins stretches his mouth open and Rumlow can hear the joint pop back into place. "Fucker remembered I taught him to kiss. Didn't remember not everyone has his endurance."

Well, isn't that just delicious? Rumlow doesn't even try to hold back a cackle. The gut punch he receives in response is worth it.

"Fuck you."

"It could be worse." Rumlow snorts. "At least he didn't dislocate your _dick."_

Rollins just stares. "Why would he do that?"

"What, your kissing's more memorable than your fucking? _That_ why you got the Soldier to molest me?"

"We didn't _fuck_." Rollins looks nauseated at the prospect, or maybe he's just trying to pop his jaw back into place again. "Do I look like I have a death wish? Not everyone's sexually attracted to dangerous stupidity, you know."

Rumlow replays Rollins's words in his mind, struggling to make them fit. "But…you said…"

"I was talking _shit._ " Rollins shakes his head, giving Rumlow a stare that he can usually only earn once there's a few beers in him. "I'm not _insane._ I gave him a cold shower."

Rumlow tries to imagine that. It's significantly less appealing then his dreams over these past few months. "And you say you don't have a death wish?"

"He's used to the cold," Rollins snaps. Then winces, rubbing at his face again. "And he kisses like a damn _snake._ "

"You must be a bad teacher."

When Rollins grabs Rumlow's collar, he braces himself for a blow, but instead he's met with the violent press of Rollins's mouth to his own. Okay, at least this part of his dreams was accurate.

"Keep it off the clock, boys," the Widow says, and Rumlow jerks away to find that both she and Cap have boarded the jet. Of course. At this point in his life, why should he expect any different?

"Sorry to interrupt," Cap says, red-faced, but there's a smirk on his face no amount of blushing can conceal.

Then they're off, and Rollins is punching his shoulder. "You broke my face again, jackass."

"Maybe the doctors will take pity and give you a new one," Rumlow says. "Come on, let's get to work."

He makes his way to the touch screens to deliver the mission briefing and, thank heaven for small favors, both Cap and the Widow keep their mouths shut. Not that their thoughts will matter at all in a few days anyway. He brushes that little twinge aside, focuses on the task at hand. "Target is a mobile satellite launch program, the Lemurian Star…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Zodiac mission, in which Cap jumps out of the Willis Tower, takes place in the prequel comic to _Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ by Peter David and Rock-He Kim.


End file.
